


The Queen of Hearts is to be Despised and Feared

by Scarabsi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Experimental Style, not very well-researched
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-18
Updated: 2010-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-15 14:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarabsi/pseuds/Scarabsi
Summary: The American Revolution is over, and things are only getting worse.





	The Queen of Hearts is to be Despised and Feared

**Author's Note:**

> I actually liked the Chinese name I gave this story better than the English one, Q♥ 可恨可怕, but I didn't want people to think the story was in Chinese or anything so I'm putting it here. I was younger and stupider when I wrote this, so it was written without any historical research.

"Drying your tears still?"  
  
The room was dark, almost pitch black, sliced coldly by the bar of light that slid through the unshut door. The bar broke and diminished; there was a man at the door.  
  
No. He was no man.  
  
England moved away from the light, shied away from it, pressed a tired body against the wall of the tiny room.  _Go away,_  he thought.  _Don't look at me. I am not doing this. the past decade never happened._  And he was not lying crumpled in his room with all the blinds drawn, letters strewn all over his desk and floor and bed, wiping his dirtied face with torn scraps of red.  
  
The door closed, rather heavily because England had paid good money for it. In the confinement of the sightless room, the sound of laboured breathing was at once louder and much more conspicuous. England held his breath, wiped away phlegm; the noise remained.  
  
Now that England was listening for it, there were other worrying qualities to the sound; it was too wet, wasn't even, and if England's eyes closed (even though it made no change to the perspective) there was the distant echo of human voices. They did not come from outside England's shuttered window; no, the noise was recognizable as out of physical earshot, from across the Channel. The breaths had begun to even out, they grew strained and conscious. Its loneliness in the otherwise soundless room had been realized.  
  
"The problem is settled. We won the war. He is yours no longer, so hasn't the time yet come for you to move on?"  
  
England stood, feeling out the wall to ascertain the positioning of the room. Slowly, England walked toward the voice, reaching out a filthy hand in the dark. After an agonizing amount of time fingers reached curled hair, and England knew what colour it would be if the room allowed for spectrum.  
  
England traced up the hair, found a clammy face at the end of it. The laboured breath hitched, and there was a movement in the air; but no opposing hand came to hit England away, so England continued moving along that face; over trimmed chin and long nose. Near the cheeks there was unhealthy warmth; at the forehead the heat was nearly deathly.  
  
". . . I never suspected you could move on  _that_  fast," he said, chuckling.  
  
"How much did you give to help the bratling to his eventual demise?"  
  
France did not answer, but the grip on the face demanded explanation; to laugh at such a demand would feel exhilarating, but also painful, as mind ordered body in one movement and body fought itself over every other possibility.  
  
"Speak to me, you petty scum! Just how desperate were you to get just one more point over me on the scorecard?"  
  
Now France did move away from the hand, and his annoyed grunt was just as inelegant and clumsy as could be expected. France took the opportunity to push him over to the ground, and the two bodies tumbled for a brief period of time, ending naturally with France as the victor, disadvantages aside.  
  
The disobedience swelled in France, and France's throat choked on the carefully picked words. Feverish coughing filled the darkness, barely audible undertone of furious, hungry screaming deafening both pairs of ears.  
  
"Good God! What ever is the-- Hey! Can you hear me?! Can you hear. . . ."  
  
The screaming was coming from all directions, and France himself was screaming in mind, everything screaming at once, calling for blood, calling for death, death, death of, death of the King-----  
  
  
The weight was gone from England, and as England stood up as quickly as possible the door opened again, and the stream of light blinded England's eyes. England rushed toward his silhouette in the doorway, hands over eyes, wondering just what was happening--  
  
  
 **"Off with their heads!"**  
  
  
When he crumpled to the floor, England could only stare, half-blinded, in complete disbelief and horror. The words rang in England, bringing fear of all sorts; fear for the self, fear for the others, fear for all.

.

  
Years later, England would catch glimpses of a ragged France, eyes bulging and unfocused and a strip of torn red cloth in his hand. England stopped looking at France altogether when that red cloth began to drip.


End file.
